


How Soon Is Now?

by OrangeFanfic



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: 80s, Comedy, Crime, Drama, Drugs, F/M, Gen, Goth - Freeform, High School, High School Drama, Love, Romance, Sex, The Cure, The Smiths - Freeform, Violence, teen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1957074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangeFanfic/pseuds/OrangeFanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Flaca origin story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

"He put it in _my_ bag."

Maritza twisted a lock of jet-black hair around her index finger. She tipped her head towards Flaca as they both stared up, trying to imagine a blanket of stars instead of the concrete ceiling.

"I didn't even know it was there. I thought I was carrying heavy ass baby formula until the officer stopped me. Stupid."

"I've met a lot of stupid people. You're not one of them," Flaca offered.

"I never even shot a gun before." Maritza shook her head at the absurdity. "What about you? I know Ian did something to get you locked up. How come you never talk about it?"

Flaca hesitated, not wanting to revisit the memory. Then finally, a tiny smile crept to the corners of her mouth.

"It's not his fault. I knew what I was doing."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Back row of the classroom, as usual. Flaca's eyes glazed over as she stared ahead at the blackboard, trying to tune out the idiot brunette babbling on about Shakespeare. Her tolerance for nonsense was low, and high school was full of nonsense. Everyone was so concerned about looking and dressing and being like everybody else. Their faces all blended together into one boring blob.

Flaca reached down through her torn black fishnets and pinched her thigh hard to keep from falling asleep, just as the brunette said, a little too smugly, that _Romeo and Juliet_ was the greatest love story ever told.

Flaca snorted a laugh. Everyone turned to stare.

"Do you have something to add to the discussion, Miss Gonzalez?" The teacher looked down her nose at Flaca through coke bottle glasses.

"Yeah, that's retarded."

The brunette screwed up her face. "Excuse me?"

"It's not a real love story, _gringa_. It's a warning about bad blood between families. They're trying to say if you have beef with somebody you need to squash that shit or somebody could get killed. They're just like my cousins."

"You're insane. Everybody knows that _Romeo and Juliet_ is the most romantic story there is."

"Then why do they say that he was in love with somebody else like five minutes before he met her? It's like, a pattern of behavior. If he had of lived long enough, he probably would have dumped her and moved on to the next bitch. I'd never fall for that shit –"

"Miss Gonzalez, language," the teacher chimed in.

The brunette was sufficiently flustered. She wasn't letting this one go.

"We're talking about Shakespeare, not your baby's daddy, you freak."

 _Freak_ was the one word that always set Flaca off, and the other kids knew it. Ever since she fell in love with goth and black became her signature color, there had been fights every day. She was a black sheep in a flock of, well, sheep.

Her Uncle Tino said she was just like her mother, a hot-blooded Latina who couldn't control her temper. But he always said it with pride, his eyes sparkling and a cigarette bobbing between his grinning teeth, which made Flaca feel it was okay to fly off the handle every now and then.

So it was no surprise when she found herself kneeling on the floor, tearing the stringy brown hair from the brunette's head. But it was unfortunate, because this fight landed her in Special Ed.

 

* * *

 

Flaca stood before his desk with hands at her sides, her fingertips measuring the length of her too-short skirt.

"Frankenstein boots, mini skirt, black lipstick. You're breaking the dress code."

"So?"

Flaca glanced around. Special Education was a joke. Besides herself, the only kids in the classroom were a napping stoner and a kid so slow he couldn't tell you his own name.

"I'm already in here. What else you want to do to me?"

"They said you have anger management issues." He sniffed the air. "And a serious pot problem."

"I didn't do shit and you can't prove shit."

The teacher rose to look Flaca in the eye. At full height, he towered over her just enough to make her nervous. Then his eyes softened.

"Relax. They're not allowed to tell you this, but pot never hurt anybody. And I'm not here to punish you. Whoever had you reading _Romeo and Juliet_ is the one that deserves to be punished."

He kept his eyes trained on her as he moved to the bookshelf and pulled out a copy of Kafka's _Metamorphosis_. He tossed it to her.

"This should be about your speed."

Flaca glanced around again, convinced that this must be a practical joke.

"We both know you're too smart for this class. Maybe too smart for your own good."

"Then get me out of here."

"Read this, and I'll see what I can do."

The bell rang before Flaca could protest any further. She headed for the door.

"Hey, I just saved you from six weeks' hard labor in detention hall. Don't I get a thank you?"

"Thanks Mr. Murphy," Flaca mumbled, shoving the book in her bag.

"Call me Ian." He smiled. "It'll be our little secret."


	2. Chapter 2

Flaca finished the book in a day.

When she returned it, he gave her another one, then another. She was irritated at first – not because of the reading, but because she hated being told what to do. It turned out that Ian knew her better than she knew herself. Every book he recommended was dark and intense, the kind of work that kept Flaca's eyes glued to the page. But as much as she was dying to talk about the beautiful sadness of Gregor Samsa's struggle or the true meaning of _Heart of Darkness_ , she put on a mean mug and silently flung each book across his desk, just to let him know what was up.

And that's how it was, until the day that Flaca got stranded. Waiting in the school parking lot, silently cursing her uncle for failing to show up or answer his phone. This was a common occurrence, but it never got any easier. Her family's heavy involvement with the Kings meant that sometimes, shit just happened. And _shit_ could be cops, shootings, or worse. For Flaca, an unanswered phone call sent a thousand possible scenarios racing through her head.

She sat on the curb picturing her uncle dead on a concrete slab, a pool of blood forming around his lifeless body, when Ian pulled up on his vespa.

"You need a ride?"

Flaca looked like death warmed over, slumped on the curb in a black tule skirt that was tattered from dragging on the ground. She raised her head.

"No."

"Come on," he said, nodding his head towards the back. "Get on."

 

* * *

 

 

The wind caressed Flaca's hair and sent a chill up her skirt. Puttering through the city clinging tight to Ian, close enough to every now and then get a whiff of his shampoo and sweat and traces of the thai he'd had for lunch, Flaca forgot herself. For now, she was someone different. Like Audrey Hepburn in _Roman Holiday_ , on an adventure.

 

* * *

 

 

They ended up at the park.

"You know I don't usually do this, right?"

Flaca watched Ian's face turn aglow as he lit up a joint and handed it to her. He had to be the mellowest guy she'd ever met and she often wondered how he'd ended up teaching, but couldn't bring herself to ask.

Flaca nearly choked with one puff. The high came quickly and took over her entire body, like lying in a vat of warm chocolate pudding with five sets of hands massaging her. Everything was buzzing. 

At some point there was music? Yes, she was listening to Ian's CD player, hearing the most amazing, gentle voice of a man, or was it a woman? Floating on the night air singing Flaca's every thought.

_Take me out tonight_

_Take me anywhere, I don't care_

_I don't want to go home_

_Because I haven't got one_

"You must have been on Morrissey's mind," Ian told her.

"Never heard of him."

"Where've you been, kid? This is an '80s anthem."

Ian was old and corny, and somewhere rattling around in the back of Flaca's mind was the fear that somebody would see them together. But the higher she got, the less it mattered.

"This is that ooh wee," she coughed. "Where'd you even get this?"

"I got my ways," he smiled.

That's how it started.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a few tweaks to Chapter 2 to coincide with this one.

_Ch-chinng._

It was like a register swinging open every time she passed his desk. There'd be a copy of Bret Easton Ellis waiting with a CD inside, or a fatty slyly tucked into the book jacket of Iain Banks. This was cash to Flaca. He knew what she wanted and he always delivered.

Now the crab grass was crunching underneath her Frankenstein boots as she marched across the football field to the bleachers. He'd be waiting there for her, to listen to Morrissey, talk nonsense and smoke. But especially smoke.

Sooner or later she'd find herself sneaking out to meet him in the wee hours.

"What's your real name?"

"Everybody called me Flaca since I was little."

"That's not a name, that's an insult."            

"What do you know about it, _guero_?"

" _Medio Dominicano_ ," he pounded his chest. "Tell me. You know I can find it in your records."

If Flaca had been thinking clearly, she might have looked him in the eye to see if he could be trusted. Instead she shut her eyes tight and held her breath until her brain felt toasted. Then she blew a smoke ring.

"My mother named me Marisol."

"'Sea and sun.' I like that."

He watched the black silhouette of her lips as she blew more smoke rings into the air. Then he pulled her close and kissed her, like a grown man kissing the love of his life. Instantly this was more serious than anything Flaca had ever gotten into.

As he pushed his tongue against hers, a wave of euphoria seemed to hit. All at once, she was giddy and sweating and overcome with the urge to climb inside him and make herself at home. This isn't how she thought love would be. This was faster and brighter and much, much better. This was sex on steroids. It was cloud nine. It was also the molly that Ian had put on his tongue.

"You like?" he asked, wiping her sweat-soaked bangs from her face with his fingers.

"Yeah," she answered, dizzy. "I love."


	4. Chapter 4

“I need you to do something for me.”

It turned out that Ian was a dealer. He knew a guy that knew a guy, which meant he could get his hands on a lot more than weed, including molly that made Flaca's toes curl. He explained it away as a necessity. Nobody could get by on a teacher's salary, he reasoned, so he did what he had to do.

But now he wanted Flaca’s help.

"You're asking me to sell to the other kids?"

"Flaca, I'm old. I teach here. They’re not gonna buy it from me."

"You're sounding like that snakeman in the 'Just Say No' commercial. You want me to cruise the playground too? Maybe I can get some toddlers hooked on smack."

"You know it's not the same thing."

He stepped closer. Hooked an arm around her waist, pulling her in to him.

"We both know that teenagers are smart enough to make their own decisions. Aren't they?"

He caught Flaca's eye. Her resolve started to melt a little.

"Nobody in this school even talks to me."

"Don't be naïve. The dealer is the most popular kid around," he offered with a grin. "Everyone loves you when you're giving them what they want."

"What if I got caught? What if –"

"You won't. This is important. It isn't just for me…"

Flaca's eyes searched him, settling on his lips, and there she saw a sparkle. A silky, golden thread emerging from his mouth, stretching to the sky, spinning a web of tales of his glorious dreams for the two of them, if only he could get the money. The words spun quickly – the places they would go, the things they would buy together. Honey dripping from his tongue and encircling her, binding her hands and bending her to his will.

 

* * *

 

 

Selling was much easier than Flaca thought, and in no time she had packets of molly floating all over school. It was as simple as passing notes in class, and a lot more profitable. So profitable in fact, that she was able to bring on a couple of other girls to do the day-to-day selling so she rarely had to carry the product herself.

There was only the weekly cash and supply drop between home and school, and the occasional fire to put out when they sold out of molly or somebody couldn't pay. Best of all, Ian gave her a hefty cut of the profits and kept her on a loose leash, which made Flaca feel like a boss. It was her own private, fully functional operation and though she'd never admit it aloud, she was proud of herself.

And then, her stash went missing. On a Sunday afternoon when everyone was home and anyone could have taken her shit. Uncles and cousins in the driveway, siblings in the back room in front of the TV, babies in the living room screaming for tías and abuela in the kitchen running their mouths, bodies on the steps playing video games as Flaca stomped downstairs. There was no way she could go around asking about a missing backpack full of drugs.

She stood in the middle of the rowdy zoo ready to bust a bitch's head open, when a sharp whistle cut the air. Flaca turned to find her Uncle Tino standing at the side door leading to the driveway, a knowing look on his face.

 

* * *

 

 

Flaca had a huge family. She had grown up around swarms of boys and men and never thought much of it.

But now, leaning against the glistening paint of her Uncle Tino's parked car with a hundred more uncles and cousins surrounding, seeing the angry ink of their face tats stretch and shrug like cryptic symbols of war, her whole body was acutely aware of them and what they were capable of.

"This is serious shit. Where'd it come from?"

"Don't fuck around. Speak up!"

" _Mija_ , you better start talking."

The fear was so potent because she knew that she couldn't. Flaca wasn't a snitch, and so she would have to take whatever consequences came with keeping her mouth shut. She imagined them rifling through the rest of her things until they found evidence of Ian's existence, then hunting him down like a pack of wolves in the night.

Flaca swallowed hard, refusing to let her terror creep to the surface.

But as it turned out, they didn't want to murder Ian. They wanted to meet him. They wanted in.

"You found a whole new supply, one that nobody else knows about," Tino shook his head.

Flaca studied his face and realized that he, too, was proud of her. He was also ready to bring Ian's product to the streets using the members of his own gang.

"This is gonna be great for business."

"What about me?" Flaca fired back. She didn't want to get into this line of work in the first place, but suddenly the idea of getting cut out of it made her feel like a territorial little puppy clinging to her master's leg.

"I'm supposed to be selling," she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.  

The others laughed at her boldness.

Flaca had always been the good one in the family. Besides the occasional fight or suspension, she had never been in any serious trouble. Never dropped out, never got knocked up. It was a commonly held belief among the Gonzales clan that one day, all the books she read would help her get out and make something of herself. So any time some gangster shit was about to go down, Tino and the others kept her far away from it. But the way that Tino now stared at her, wheels turning, let her know that was no longer the case.

"There's only one way you get involved," he explained. "You're already part of the family, but now you've got to become part of the _family_."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A power outage at Litchfield triggers Flaca's PTSD from a gang initiation.

When the Suburbs went dark, it was oddly peaceful. Prisoners looked up assuming there was an electrical short and the lights would flicker back on at any moment. Most everyone took it as an invitation to try and get a nap in before the harsh fluorescent glow returned.

A few prisoners shrieked or swore, if they were in the middle of doing something important like making a shiv out of a pencil sharpener. So too did residents of the Ghetto, who were busy braiding hair or just reaching the really good part of a novel.

But when the lights went out in Spanish Harlem, everything broke. A piercing scream that could tear the paint from the walls ripped through the bunks. It didn't sound human. And it felt like a solid eternity before anyone realized it was Flaca.

A lump stuck in Maritza's throat as she rushed to find her friend, convinced that she had been stabbed, blinded, or both. Instead she found Flaca balled in a heap on the floor, wailing like the world was coming to an end. Maritza stooped down beside her just as the guards came in barking demands to know what the hell was going on. Maritza couldn't see much of them in the dark, but she didn't have an answer anyway. As Flaca screamed and struggled in Maritza's arms, she only knew one thing – at that moment, her friend was gone.

Flaca's mind wasn't at the Litch anymore. The darkness had triggered a switch in her head and she was now miles away, years away, seeing a black bag swiped over her head for initiation. The last thing she remembered looking at was her tías' face, expressionless, as the world went dark.

They told Flaca it would hurt, but she still wasn't prepared. There was no way to really be ready for that kind of beating. Not when there was an army of people against you and you were on the ground and you couldn't see. All she could do was ball herself up and wait for it to be finished, and even that was no good. The pain was all over.

Shoving and punching. Jagged rings and fingernails getting caught in her hair as they pulled it. She was bleeding but couldn't tell where the blood was coming from. Worst of all, somebody was kicking into her side, directly into a bruise that was already there. That part hurt the most. If it had been a fair fight, Flaca would have found this woman and killed her for kicking that bruise.

_"Trece, doce, once…!"_

They were counting down now, which was good because it meant she wasn't locked in some dark, distant hell that would last forever. It had to end sometime.

_"Diez, nueve, ocho…!"_

Flaca thought of Ian. Did he have any idea of the sacrifice she was making? Would he appreciate it? _He'd better_ , she thought. _He better kiss the ground I walk on._

_"Siete, seis…!"_

She tried to picture the babies they would have as somebody stomped her abdomen. Flaca never cared about kids before, but suddenly with all these bitches crowded around beating the life out of her like some kind of brutal ancient ritual, bringing new life into the world seemed important. There had to be more than this.

_"Cinco… Cuaaatroooo…!"_

The girls punched and kicked harder, desperate to land a few more blows as time ran out.

_"Tres…!"_

The one thing that Flaca had asked was that they didn't hit her in the face, and they swore they wouldn't. Years later everyone would still swear it was an accident.

But Flaca felt it coming from miles away, a fist flying like lightning. Oscar De La Hoya shit. It cracked her upside the head and in an instant, she was out cold.

She didn't recall anything else from initiation, except that when she awoke a few days later her eye was still swollen all the way shut. And now, she was part of the _family_.


End file.
